Understand You
by SpectacularlyIgnorant
Summary: Sherlock sexts John out of the blue.  John was definitely not expecting it.


Neither of them really wants to be here, but they still insist on keeping up the ritual. Every few weeks one of them drives out to see the other and they sit through a quiet lunch and head back home again. John can't help but think that they would drift irrevocably apart if it weren't for these torturous meetings, and so he goes. Anyway, it's good to take the opportunity to make sure Harry is all right and hasn't started the drinking again.

The chubby waiter shuffles over and deposits their plates in front of them – they have both ordered a steak and onion sandwich. It's one of the few pleasures they have in common. The silence continues for another few moments as they each bite into their sandwiches.

"So," starts Harry after a swallow, making a brave attempt at conversation, "how is the mad flatmate from hell? Has he managed to dissolve any more of your jumpers?"

John smiles a little. He'd been furious at the time, even though it _had_ been one of his least favorites. He'd forced Sherlock to cook dinner that night as penance. Never having cooked a proper meal in his life before, the result had been a very half-hearted meal of blackened chicken and overcooked noodles. John had only figured out later that the meal had actually come from the Chinese restaurant down the road and had been sabotaged by Sherlock to make it appear homemade. In hindsight, it was probably a good thing he hadn't actually attempted the dish himself.

"He's good. Fine. Although he was just finishing up a case when I left so it's entirely possible the flat is now reduced to ashes from some experiment to alleviate his boredom."

Harry sighs. "You do know that's not normal behavior, right John? You don't need to put up with the madman. When are you going to find yourself a _normal_ flat mate?"

A muffled beep signals the arrival of a text to John's mobile. Glad for a reason not to answer his sister, John reaches for the phone in his pocket while simultaneously taking another bite of his sandwich. He opens the text one-handedly and immediately starts spluttering bits of onion and beef all over the table.

Harry stares at him. "What the bloody hell was that for?" she cries angrily as she picks food off her shirt.

John can feel hotness creeping over his face and knows it must be turning bright red. "Nothing," he insists hurriedly as he stuffs the device away.

Harry's look of indignation changes swiftly to one of delight. "What was in that text?"

"Nothing!" John repeats emphatically.

"Oh, so you wouldn't mind showing me, would you?" she grins and reaches across the table to pull the phone out of John's pocket.

John jumps backward and then quickly moves the phone to a more secure pocket, out of reach.

"So, is there a woman you're not telling me about?" Harry sits back with crossed arms, still grinning in a self-satisfied way.

John remembers the contents of the texts and laughs. It comes out sounding more like a yelp. "Most definitely not."

Harry's eyebrows rise up beneath her light brown fringe. She is quiet for a moment as she scrutinizes John. "No way," she says suddenly, the smile growing across her face again. "No fucking way."

John stares back. She was no Sherlock but she did have an infuriatingly good sense for relationship matters. Which was, if you thought about it, rather ironic since she always seemed to be messing up her own relationships.

"Don't tell me you're shagging the mad flatmate." She is practically cackling by now.

John gapes. "No! No, no, _definitely _not. No."

A single eyebrow goes up this time. "Don't get all defensive about it."

"Look, I've got to go, Harry. See you later." Without a backward glance he jumps up from the small table and positively sprints out of the restaurant, leaving his half-eaten sandwich and amused sister behind.

John spends the forty minute train ride back into London trying to figure out exactly why he'd been sent the bloody text. Somewhat apprehensively he retrieves his mobile from his pocket and looks over the text again. He's almost wishing he imagined the contents, hoping it was somehow a mistake.

But no. There it is, plain as day. It really is a photograph of Sherlock's cock. He knows it's Sherlock because he can see bits of the flat in the background and he recognizes Sherlock's long, pale fingers in the corner of the picture…

John catches himself staring at the photo much longer than is at all necessary. Somehow unable to think with a penis in front of his face, he shuts the phone off and pushes it deep into his pocket again. So far he's received no follow-up texts, no explanations or apologies. Does this mean it was really meant for him? Surely even Sherlock would have said something if he'd realized his mistake. Or perhaps it had been a mistake but he hadn't noticed. Still, John can't even imagine Sherlock sending something like that to _anyone_, ever. Confused thoughts continue swirling through his mind until he is deposited outside the door of 221b Baker Street.

He enters the building and walks as slowly as he can up the stairs. He isn't sure if he even wants to go in the flat. Maybe he should turn around and júst go somewhere else and avoid whatever might be ahead. But where would he go? He does, after all, live here as well. He squares his shoulders and decides to face the problem head-on.

John opens the door to the flat hesitantly, wondering exactly what he'll find inside. The scene that meets his eyes is a completely normal one. The flat is just as cluttered as ever, strewn with papers and experiments, and Sherlock is lying on the couch looking bored. Thankfully there are no rose petals or bottles of champagne in sight. Not that he'd expect Sherlock to be the romantic type, of course. Not that he'd expect Sherlock to be any type at all when it came to matters of the heart.

"Ah, John. It's about time."

John shuts the door behind himself. "Sherlock," he says tentatively, "did you mean to send me that, erm, text an hour ago?"

Sherlock glances over. "Oh, yes, of course."

There are full three seconds of silence.

"What the _hell_ were you playing at?" John catches himself off-guard. He wasn't planning on getting angry.

"It was an experiment," Sherlock replies, sitting up and folding his feet under himself.

Now John feels he has a right to be angry. "You sent me a picture of your-" _undeniably massive- shut UP, brain_ "-cock as an experiment? Sherlock, I put up with a lot from you, but this is way too much. It is not acceptable to send photos of yourself to your flatmate who is not romantically involved with you!"

Sherlock springs up off the couch and approaches John. He's standing close. Just a little too close. "You're angry with me," he says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. His beautiful, full lips. John's eyes travel down of their own accord to stare at Sherlock's tight silk shirt…

John pulls his attention back up to look Sherlock straight in the face. "Well done, another brilliant deduction from Sherlock Holmes," he says wryly, determined to continue being angry.

Uncharacteristically, Sherlock ignores this jibe. "What is it about you, John?" he has adopted a very strange facial expression that John has never seen before. No, that wasn't true. Come to think of it, he can remember hints of it – like that one time in the hallway after chasing the cab. He'd glimpsed it just for a second then, but he'd dismissed it at the time.

"There's something about you, John. I noticed it the moment we first met."

John is staring, not for the first time today. He notices how Sherlock keeps saying his name.

"It infuriates me because I can't understand it. You're the only person, John, who's stumped me like this. I can look at anyone and understand them in a heartbeat, but I can't understand you." Sherlock looks distressed by this thought.

"But you did," says John argumentatively, "you knew I'd been in the war. You knew about Harry and her split with Clara and my limp."

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "Superficial. That is only surface information. I still can't understand you. Your innermost thoughts and hopes are a mystery to me. I can learn these things from anyone else, but not you."

John feels momentarily flattered and then remembers that he's trying to be angry with Sherlock. "Why are you telling me all this?" he demands.

"I want to know you." Sherlock is looking positively insistent, speaking as though nothing else in the world is more urgent. "I want to understand you John. I want to get inside your head and learn every single minute detail about you." As he speaks he comes closer to John, moving imperceptibly slowly.

John is furious with himself when he realizes his breath is quickening. But, God, he can't help being turned on by this. By Sherlock. "That still doesn't explain the text." It takes some effort to get the words out properly.

"I was unsure of how to let you know my intentions," Sherlock says. He is maddeningly close now. "This is all entirely new to me. It was a readily available way to communicate my feelings-" he squirms at the word, "-so I took it. I couldn't wait any longer."

Even though he's been standing quite still for several minutes John is breathing as though he's just finished a race. Vaguely he thinks how Harry may very well prove to be psychic as well as a relationship counselor.

Their faces are so close now. John can feel Sherlock's breath on his face and even the warmth radiating from his body but all he can seem to see are the piercing grey-green eyes that are boring into him.

"Let me understand you, John," begs Sherlock.

A moment later the space between their faces is breached. Sherlock is hesitant and unsure of what he's doing at first, but he is a blissfully quick learner. His dominant nature kicks in after the momentary pause and he is pushing John up against the door of the flat, kissing him more insistently than John has ever been kissed before. Sherlock is hungrily pressing up against him as John's hands travel to Sherlock's back to grasp fistfuls of his purple silk shirt.

Somehow they have moved to the couch. Sherlock rips John's jumper and shirt off and his mouth starts to explore every inch of John's chest, his neck, his jaw. John can't help but gasp at every touch; he'd never known he was so sensitive.

Soon John is pulling Sherlock's purple shirt off and marveling at the pale skin beneath. Now it is John who is exploring every inch of Sherlock with his mouth and his fingers. He has never seen Sherlock look so unguarded and the knowledge that he has such a power only serves to embolden him.

Sherlock's back is arching slightly as John kisses a line down the middle of his chest and stomach, making detours to swirl his tongue over Sherlock's nipples. "John," says Sherlock in a strangled voice, "promise me."

John speaks between kisses, reveling in the feel of the fingers of Sherlock's right hand tangled in his hair. "Promise you what?"

"Swear to me you'll let me in," Sherlock replies breathlessly. He sits up, pulling John with him, staring at him with urgency in his eyes. "I need to know you, John Watson."

John is relishing the power he holds now. He could do or say anything to Sherlock right now. This man who was usually so cold and unattached was now laid right before him with his defenses so low, possibly lower than they had ever been before. He could utterly break him right now if he wanted to. But there is only one thing he _can_ say.

"I promise, you bloody idiot," and he grins and pushes his flat mate back down on the couch.


End file.
